Bad Days, Worse Nights
by Max Alleyne
Summary: They all knew why she was going, even if she didn't tell them, and maybe that was what made the day that hard.  She had never needed a "day off" until Fang left them six years ago.  FAX
1. Day Off

**Author's Note: So, this is my first Maximum Ride fanfic, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Constructive criticim is cool, too. I just need to know what's working and what's not. **

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When Iggy woke up in the morning, he knew that it was going to be a long, hard day. It was Max's day, and those were always hard. It wasn't that Max was extra hard on them—though she was in the days leading up to this one—and it wasn't that she ever let her weariness show. She would wake up this morning like it was a normal day, and then she would go out after she ate breakfast. None of them knew where she went—not even Angel, which meant that even Max probably didn't know where she was going—and she never told them. She would come back the next morning looking slightly worse for wear, but never telling them where she went or what she had done in her day away. After the first two years that she did it, they stopped asking about it.

They all knew why she was going, even if she didn't tell them, and maybe that was what made the day that hard. She had never needed a "day off" until Fang left them six years ago. He had been her refuge, the guy that she could always count on to watch her back and still love her at the end of the day. She didn't need a day off when she had her family—Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy and Angel—and her other half—Fang. But now he was gone, and it didn't matter how long he was gone; she would still take her one day and mourn for her own loss.

When she came down for breakfast, she looked like she normally did: black combat boots, a simple white V-necked shirt and a military style jacket. She's got a small bag on her shoulder, and she's every inch the talented leader when she gathers them in the kitchen.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she says matter-of-factly. She holds up a disposable cell phone, bought specifically for this occasion. "You have the number; if there is an emergency, call me. Understand?"

Everyone nods, and no one dares to say anything. They just stare at the twenty-one year old girl—no, woman; she's a woman now—who raised them and hope that she'll be in one piece when she returns in twenty-four hours.

"Iggy is in charge. If he asks you to do something, you do it. Do you understand?" Max asks.

They all nod. It doesn't matter that they're all six years older, they all stack their fists on top of each other before breaking apart. Nudge and Angel give Max a hug; she ruffles Gazzy's hair and pats Iggy on the shoulder. They're old enough to get along without her now, and she knows it. That's the reason that she can leave them like this. The first three years that she did it, she made sure that her mother or Jeb was there to look after them.

"Alright. I'll be back tomorrow. Stay safe."

And then she grabbed her small bag and made her way out the house. Immediately, she took to the sky, reveling in the feel of the wind around her body. She turned on her supersonic speed and hitting two hundred miles per hour in six flaps of her wings. Fifteen minutes later, she reached her destination; a tiny hole-in-the-wall gas station off the side of an interstate. She landed in the woods and walked to the gas station, trying to avoid being spotted by any of the traffic below.

When she walked through the front door of the gas station, the cashier turned to look at her. He stared at her long and hard, admiring the hard, lean lines of her body. She didn't even notice; instead, she made her way to the back of the store to the bathroom, where she opened her bag and pulled out an assortment of makeup that the other members of the flock would never in a million years imagine her wearing. She quickly applies the eyeliner and mascara—not without poking herself in the eye several times—and some lipstick. When she looks in the mirror, it doesn't look right on her, but she likes it this way. This isn't the way that it's supposed to be; she isn't supposed to spend one day a year mourning the guy that she lost.

When she comes out of the bathroom—complete with makeup—the clerk stares at her even harder, and would have followed her out of the station to ask her out if she hadn't lost him so quickly in the woods before taking flight again. There are very few bars that are open before mid-afternoon, but she managed to find one when she first started taking her "vacation days." It was a little hole-in-the wall place called "Pursuits" that was perfect for her. In the past six times that she had come here, they had never once asked her for an ID, despite the fact that she was clearly underage.

She walked through the front door at 12:01 PM, and there was a waiting bartender. She had never seen the same bartender there twice, which wasn't surprising considering the place. She sat at the bar and ordered the strongest drink they had—bourbon with 127 proof. It wasn't that she liked the stuff, not really, but it was what the bartender had put in front of her when she first started drinking, and it had stuck.

"Starting early?" the bartender asked.

She gave him a "no shit" glance and didn't say anything, but instead sipped the whiskey that he had placed in front of her. There was a banged-up jukebox in the corner, and she spent the afternoon listening to it as others came and went. As the sun rose in the sky and then began to set, she began to look at the people around her. There was a middle-aged man sitting in a booth in the corner, fiddling with the wedding band on his finger.

"See that guy?" Max asked the bartender, pointing at the man. She didn't wait for him to answer. "Of course you do. You have eyes. That guy is cheating on his wife."

The bartender raised his eyebrows in surprise, and they raised even further when a woman slid into the booth with the man wearing a wedding band that didn't match. She was always right. Profiling people had kept her alive for a long time, and she was never wrong anymore. She pointed to the woman who was sitting at a table, eyeing the karaoke machine with longing.

"Her," Max said, pointing. "She wants to be a star, but she's too afraid to get it right. So she's going to spend her life sitting in dives like this singing to the drunken masses."

Now the bartender—tall, dark-haired and fairly handsome—looked impressed. "She's in here at least twice a week. How did you know?"

She laughed humorlessly. "I've been doing this for a long time."

"You're too young to have been doing it for _that _long," he said quietly.

"You'd be surprised," she answered, running her fingers through her hair. She couldn't remember how many drinks she'd had, but she didn't really care. It was dark outside and the rest of the world seemed pleasantly far away. The booze dulled the pain of knowing that she was going to wake up in the morning and be without Fang. This was her one day a year to wallow in the misery of missing him, and she intended to wallow to the fullest. If that happened to mean waking up in the morning with a guy she didn't know, so be it. It wasn't like Fang was there to see it.

"Who is he? The guy you're trying to forget?"

"He's my other fucking half. Well, was anyway. He's gone now."

"Gone?"

"He left," she whispered. She barely got the words out before she felt the tears start to well in her eyes. She gritted her teeth and tried to push them back, but they came anyway. After a moment, the bartender's warm hand was covering hers. It didn't feel right, but she didn't care. It wasn't like she had planned on going home alone anyway. Might as well be bartender guy. Before bartender guy—Simon, he said his name was—had a chance to say anything, she changed the subject. "What time do you get off?"

"An hour." He smiled at her suggestively, knowing exactly what her question had implied. He pushed another glass of whiskey across the table to her—her fifth at least—and watched as she drank it down in one swallow. She spent the rest of the hour trying not to think about how much he looked like that one guy that she was trying to forget; she didn't think about the way that she knew his kisses wouldn't take her breath away like _his _did, or the way that she wouldn't feel safe with Simon like she did when she was with _him. _

When the bartender finally walked around the bar and held out his hand to her, she wasn't sure that this was a good idea. But by this point, she couldn't walk on her own and she needed an escort to the seedy motel next door where she had booked her room for the night. And she didn't want to be alone. At home, she slept by herself in a house with four other people that she couldn't reach out to. She had to hold them together, which meant going to bed cold and alone. Tonight, that wouldn't be her.

Bartender guy pushed the door open and as soon as it closed behind them, he started kissing her. The stubble on his cheeks was painful on her face, and reminded her too much of how wrong this felt. His hands were too smooth; no calluses from constantly fighting and fingernails that were just slightly too long. She pulled away.

"I-I can't. P-please stop. I-I just can't…"

"What?" He looked confused, but didn't take his hands off of her.

"I thought I c-could do this, but I-I can't. Please stop," she said, forcing her words to come out clearly. Her speech was trying to slur, but she tried her best to keep it straight.

"Seriously?" His face wasn't right; it was too angry, not confused.

"As a heart attack." She took a step away and sat on the cheap motel room table while she tried to keep herself together. But instead of giving her space, bartender guy just stepped closer, trapping her against the table.

"So am I. You can't just lead a guy on like that and then not follow through." His voice was angry and mean now, his hands tightening on her wrists. She tried to push him off, but she couldn't seem to get her body to cooperate with her. Her legs were suddenly made of jelly, her arms like limp noodles. He was on her, pressing her into the hard table, and there was nothing she could do.

Max had never considered losing consciousness to be a good thing. Not until now, anyway. She was almost glad when the world started to fade to black, because that meant that she didn't have to feel it anymore. She didn't have to be awake for the assault on her body, the way that he used her like a whore.

It also meant that she didn't have to see the look of horror on _his _face when he picked the lock the next morning and found her bruised, bloody, and naked on the floor.


	2. The Morning After

**Author's Note: So, here's the second chapter. Thank you very much to wreakinghavocday-n-night and Cadisha_Ora_Rhaksha_Caden for the reviews. As I said earlier, this is my first Maximum Ride fic, so any and all feedback would be much appreciated. If you're lurking out there and reading...drop me a line and let me know what you think, please. Please review!**

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To say that _he _was horrified when he found her would be the understatement of the century. There had been a lot of violence in his life—hell, even that was an understatement—but nothing was quite so horrifying as this. Maybe it was the fact that he knew that this was the way things weren't supposed to be. _He _was never supposed to find the love of his life unconscious and laid out across the nasty sitting area table in a cheap, sleazy motel. It was the last thing that _he _had ever wanted to see.

Fang was used to making hard decisions; he was used to dealing with Max's unpopular decisions. Well, it had been a long time since he had to hear one of Max's unpopular decisions, but he would never forget the feeling. He would never forget the feeling of being with her, of supporting her, of holding her in his arms. It was the feeling that he dreamed about, the feeling that he woke up remembering and fell asleep thinking about. Right now, it was what he wanted to do more than anything.

But for the first time in a long time, Fang was struck with indecision. She had bruises all across her body and face, and they needed to be seen about. Not medically, but ice and a warm bath wouldn't hurt. But he could also see that she had been…she was naked, and there was…he could tell that she had been raped, and the culprit was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't sure if he should call the police or not. He'd never been in a situation like this, and for the first time, he wasn't sure what to do.

But to do anything, he had to wake her up first. He had to wake her up, and that wasn't something that he wanted to do. When he woke her up, that would mean that she would be able to understand and feel the pain of the experience. But it had to be done.

"Max," he said gently. "Max, wake up." She wasn't moving, and it scared him. He'd been gone for six years, but he was still used to her responding to his voice. He didn't want to shake her awake, but it seemed that he didn't have any other choice. As gently as he could, he put his hand on one of the only unbruised places on her arm and shook her.

"Max, wake up." Still no movement. "Max, sweetheart, pleasewake up. _Please._"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, her eyelids fluttered. She slowly tried to open her eyes, but the light was blinding and she quickly closed them again. Fang pulled the curtains closed to block out some of the light; she managed to slowly open her eyes and look around. It only took her a second to see Fang standing beside her. As soon as she saw him, she started and tried to scramble off the table away from him.

"It's okay! It's just me. I won't-I won't hurt you, I promise. It's me, Max."

At the sound of his voice, she froze. Standing on the other side of the table, clutching the edge for support, she stared at him long and hard. After a moment, she reached for the bedspread and wrapped it around her naked body, trying to hide from him. As she moved, pain shot through her body. She was barely able to keep the tears out of her eyes.

"F-Fang?" she whispered.

"Yeah, it's me. A-are you alright?"

She stared at him for a long moment in disbelief. She hadn't seen Fang in six years, and here he was, turning up just in time to see her at her lowest. If she wasn't hurting so much, she would find the whole thing horribly, ironically funny. No, despite the pain she still found it horribly, ironically funny. A laugh escaped from her throat. It was a strangled, choked sound that wasn't funny at all.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Max nodded slowly. "I remember. You left me. We went to Total's wedding and when we came back, you were gone. You left me that note and your laptop and then you were gone."

He stared at her, standing weak-kneed and trembling and wrapped in the nasty bed comforter in front of him, and wondered if she even knew what he was talking about. She seemed to be a million miles away from everything—which maybe was a good thing right now—but it didn't feel like her. It didn't feel like his Max.

"I meant last night. Do you remember what happened last night?"

"I might have bird DNA, but my memory is like an elephant. I never forget."

"Then you know that we need to call the police—"

"No," she said sharply. "No police. When there's police, there's attention, and attention is the last thing we need. We've just started to get things back to normal and I don't want the attention screwing things up. I don't need the police, anyway. I'm fine."

He stared at her in disbelief. "You're covered in bruises. One of your eyes is almost swollen shut. Just getting up off that table hurt you. How is that 'fine?' If you walked in the house right now, the Flock would think—"

"They would know that it's another day at the office. What time is it?" Max asked, not quite looking him in the eye.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. "It's 8:55. Why?"

"Damnit. Everyone's expecting me back by 11:00. I've got to go." She grabbed her clothes off the floor and started moving towards the bathroom, though more slowly and more stilted than she usually would. She pulled a wad of cash out of her purse and handed it to him. "There's a drug store three blocks up. Can you go and get a morning after pill?"

"How can you be so calm about this? You know what happened to you, and you're acting like nothing is wrong. What happened to you is—"

"Will you get the pill or not?" she asked shortly.

Of course he would. She needed it, and that was reason enough for him to do it. "Yeah. I'll run and go get it now."

As soon as he was gone, she got in the shower and took stock of her injuries. Bartender guy had been so angry, and the bruises on her body showed it. The pain radiating through her head—and not all of it was because of the hangover—told her that he must have hit her when she was unconscious. One of her eyes was nearly swollen shut and her lip was busted. But that was just the superficial damaged. The bruises up and down her side—and the deep pain that radiated up her sides every time she moved—told her that she had at least a few broken ribs. But she had grown up handling pain her whole life, and she couldn't let it slow her down.

The worst of it was the pain between her legs that tore through her every time she moved. There was blood smeared on her thighs and face—all her own blood—from Bartender guy. She felt dirty and bloody and disgusting; she needed to get clean. She grabbed the washcloth and the bar of soap and went to scrubbing.

It hurt. It _hurt_. But she couldn't stop. She had to get clean so that she could face the rest of the day. The Flock was waiting on her to return—daily life wasn't the same without Max bossing everyone around—and she wasn't going to return a broken, awful mess. She never told them what she did when she left them for that one day, though she was certain that they knew she wasn't doing anything good, and she didn't intend to start telling them with a story about how she had let some douchebag take advantage of her. And she sure wasn't going to let them see how much that douchebag had physically hurt her.

Most of her bruises—the smaller, shallower ones—would heal quickly. But the pain in her ribs would take a few days, and she wasn't sure how she was going to hide it, especially with the round of hugs that she was going to get when she got home. Every year when she came back from her vacation day, they always welcomed her with hugs; that was going to prove especially painful this year. But she did the best she could to hide the evidence of her encounter and then jump off the other bridge when she got there.

When she got out of the shower, she quickly dressed and put all of her stuff in her bag. Her clothes were torn and bloody, and she was going to have to get new ones before she could go home. Max didn't stop, didn't think about the fact that she was messing up evidence if she decided that she wanted to go to the police. But she hadn't been lying when she said that she didn't want the police involved. They screw up everything that they touch, anyway.

"I got your pill," Fang said the minute she stepped out of the bathroom.

"Thank you," Max answered, quickly taking the box from him, opening it and downing the pill. "I need to head out. I want to get a new change of clothes before I get home."

"Max—"

"Fang, the Flock is expecting me. It's going to scare them enough when I turn up looking like I've been run over by a freight train. I can't afford to be late and in bloody clothes. It's going to scare them out of their minds."

"And what are you going to tell them when they ask you what happened? From the way you're moving, I can already tell that you've got broken ribs. Flying with broken ribs is going to hurt like hell—"

"I'll think of something. They're probably more used to seeing me with bruises than without."

"Slow down—"

"Stop. Stop telling me what to do. You don't get that right. _You _left me. You left _me. _You haven't been here in six years, and we've moved on. We've learned to live without you—I learned to live without you—and you don't get to tell me what I need to do. I'll slow down when I'm good and ready. But right now I have people depending on me, and I can't be late. If you have a problem with that, you can leave. That's something you should be used to at this point, right?"

The words were out of her mouth before she had time to think better of it. Every last word that she had spoken was true, but they were also hurtful. She was reopening old wounds that neither one of them were ready to have reopened. It was not the time for sharing and caring, and they both knew it. He also knew that there was an unspoken invitation in her harsh words. "You can leave," she had said. She didn't say, "You have to leave."

He tried to hide the hurt in his eyes; she was completely justified in being angry at him, even if he did leave for the greater good. The greater good didn't feel like such a great cause when he saw the mess that she was at this moment. Hell, he was a mess, too. The minute he got a moment alone, he was going to beat himself up for letting this happen to her. But he also saw that she was giving him a way in. He seized it and chose not to respond to her barb.

"So, which store are we headed to?"

"There's a Target on the way. We'll stop there, and I can grab a little something for everyone," she answered briskly. She double checked to make sure that she had everything she needed before leaving the motel room. Fang followed close behind her.

They walked all the way to the edge of town and well into the forest beyond the town limits. Max took a minute to orient herself to the right direction before she stretched her wings open and took to the sky. For someone who was used to flying at two hundred miles per hour, her newer, slower pace was painstakingly slow. With each flap of her wings, she felt that ripple of pain in her ribs and fought to keep tears from streaming down her cheeks. The farther they flew, the harder it got.

"Is that the Target you're looking for?" Fang asked quietly from below her. She glanced down and realized that she was about to fly over it.

"Um, yeah. We'll land in the park and walk," she answered.

He followed her lead and landed in the park. It wasn't hard to see that her landing was a hell of a lot more awkward than it normally would have been, but she tried not to let it show. They walked quickly and silently towards the store. It didn't take them half an hour to find Max a new pair of pants, a long-sleeved V-necked shirt, and another military style jacket to help cover the bruises.

But finding "that little something" for everyone else was the hard part. Max quickly grabbed a pair of cute boots for Nudge, whose love of fashion had yet to fade. For Iggy, she grabbed two containers of grape jelly. Gazzy got mentos and Pepsi, and Angel got a teddy bear.

"A teddy bear? She's thirteen now," Fang said.

"She still likes angel bears. I'm sure she'll show you the collection when we get home."

"Max…where is all this money coming from? We never would have been able to afford this back when…back in the day."

"Saving the world has some perks, one of which includes a trust fund. It's amazing how many people want to give you money when they realize that they'd be dead if you didn't exist. Makes things a hell of a lot easier until we can get settled in."

"Settled in?"

"We've done our jobs, we've saved the world and now it's time to fit in with the rest of the world. And in this day and age, that means college. Iggy is going to graduate from the University of Colorado in three months; I'll finish in a year and a half. Nudge has been working to so that she can save money to go to fashion school in New York. Thank God Gazzy and Angel aren't thinking about college yet."

Fang was silent, thinking about everything that Max was telling him. He shouldn't be surprised that they were assimilating, but it still caught him off guard nonetheless. School had never been important to them; maintaining a low profile was important, though, and if that meant going to college, that's what it meant. From the strong set of Max's jaw, he could tell that she didn't want to further discuss it. They checked out without another word.

They didn't speak again until they were in flight and headed home. Fang could see that Max was struggling to maintain altitude and finally asked, "If you don't…I can carry you, if you need me to."

She didn't want him to; she didn't want to depend on him, but she knew that she didn't have a choice. Her head was fuzzy, her ribs were aching, and she couldn't keep going at the pace she was going now. She sighed in discontent but nodded. Then, seamlessly, as if he had never stopped doing it, Fang grabbed Max gently under the arms and pulled her into his arms. He could feel her tensing against him, but she finally relaxed in his arms.

"Where's the house?"

"It's where we used to live…back before we had to—"

"I know where it is."

Fang flew as quickly as he could, trying to keep the uncomfortable flight as short as possible for Max. He stopped a mile from the house and set Max down so that she could change clothes. As soon as she was changed, they took to the skies and landed on the porch of the house within five minutes. The rest of the gang was waiting inside.

"Max!" Nudge rushed outside and threw her arms around Max. It took everything that she had in her not to scream and cry. It was only after Nudge pulled away did the younger girl notice that her leader was bruised and battered. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine guys. And look who found me, huh? So much for that twenty years stuff, huh," Max said, putting a hand on Fang's shoulder. It was more for support than anything else, and he didn't dare take her hand away.

Silence fell over the group as everyone stared at Fang, seeing him for the first time. He didn't smile or try to be endearing. If they wanted to hate him, that was their choice. He had left them, and if they wanted to be angry, they had the right. Iggy was the first to move, patting his friend on the shoulder and leading him inside. The rest of them followed his lead, though they all still looked borribly worried about Max, who didn't let go of Fang as they walked into the house together.

"Are you going to stay with us?" Gazzy asked Fang. Fang glanced at Max, who nodded quietly.

"Yeah, Gazzy. That's the plan."


	3. Coming Home

**Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed. Your support is fantastic and keeps me going! I'm sorry for the delay, but I hope that you enjoy the chapter! Please review!**

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"So, where'd you find this loser?" Iggy asked Max jokingly when they sat down for dinner, though she wasn't entirely sure that he was joking. She'd talk to him later—she'd talk to all of them later—to get their feelings about Fang's return. Most of them probably weren't going to be happy about it, not with the way that he had left them and everything that they'd been through since he left. But the fact of the matter was, he was there—to stay, apparently—and they were just going to have to deal with it.

"Sleazy dive bar," she said lightly. "He was singing karaoke."

"Has Hell frozen over?" Angel commented, her voice skeptical.

"Watch your language. Just because you're a teenager does not mean that you can say whatever you want," Max corrected gently. Angel just glanced at her and smiled; Max knew that the entire lecture probably going in one ear and out the other, but she had to try anyway.

The scene looked like a typical family dinner. There were multiple dishes sitting on the table—a pot roast, a plate of potatoes, a bowl of green beans, and a large bowl of salad—and everyone sitting around the table. Max sat at the head of the table, and Iggy sat at the other end. In between them, Angel and Gazzy sat on one side while Nudge sat on the other side of the table. For tonight, Fang was sitting beside Nudge while Total sat on the floor and loudly objected.

"I know that the prodigal is returning and all, but that's no reason to kick me and Akila out of perfectly good seats!" Total complained loudly.

"Akila never stays in her seat, anyway. Stop whining," Iggy said.

"Yeah," Gazzy piped up though shoveling mouthfuls of roast and potatoes into his mouth. It was comforting to Fang to see that some things would never change. "What he said."

"He doesn't need comments from the peanut gallery," Nudge said. "Besides, we've always had an empty chair at the table. You know, in case you came back, Fang."

He looked at Max, who was conveniently staring at the plate in front of her and following Gazzy's example. Since they had arrived home, she had gone out of her way to avoid him. She had given each of them their gifts—and all of the Flock had been completely satisfied with them—and then set about making sure that everything was in order. She had checked and double-checked the security system, which consisted of an entire room of computer monitors and sensors; she had checked and double-checked the perimeter of their home and made sure all the cars were still in working order. Only after she had made sure that everything was okay did she stop to talk with the rest of the group.

"So, Iggy, what's up with Max getting you two containers of grape jelly? What kind of gift is that?"

Iggy grinned—a huge, smile that took up the entire bottom of her face. He lit up and Fang could already tell that this was going to be a long story.

"Haven't you ever seen _Fight Club_? If you mix grape jelly and gasoline, you can make napalm. I figure that it'll come in handy if anyone decides that they don't like having us around anymore. Or maybe we'll have someone else trying to end the world. And, you know, sometimes it's just fun to blow things up."

Fang glanced at Max, who still wasn't looking at him. "You let them play with napalm now?"

"Hey, they saved the world. If they want to _responsibly_ create and play with napalm, I'm okay with that," she said, with a pointed look at Gazzy and Iggy, just to make sure that they got the message. Of course, pointed looks weren't Iggy's strongest suit, but she figured he got the drift. "Besides, they only play with it in the middle of the desert, where there's not really a whole lot that you can catch on fire." They definitely got that hint.

"How come you don't say that when I want to buy a new pair of shoes?" Nudge asked indignantly.

"Because their napalm doesn't cost four hundred dollars a pair."

Nudge shrugged, knowing that Max was right. Despite her love of fashion, she was more than used to finding the clothes she wanted in a thrift store and altering them. Once they were able to stop running all the time, the first thing she did was learn to sew, and she had been altering, making, and remaking her own clothes ever since. On the bright side, the investment in a sewing machine had been a wise one, because she was able to let clothes out or take them in or alter them to fit one of the younger kids when the older ones outgrew them.

"Besides, all the kids at school still love your clothes," Angel said. None of them asked how she knew that; it was an answer that they all new and didn't need or want to rehash. "They think you look really pretty."

They continued eating, lightly bantering back and forth. None of them touched on the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room, and instead opted to overlook Max's visible bruises. They all knew that unless it was absolutely dire and life threatening, she wasn't going to tell them about it. One of the side effects of being a leader was learning what the group needed to know and what they didn't.

When they were all finished eating, they followed their chore schedule that Max had set up. Though Max had learned to cook since they saved the world, the whole crew still gave her a heard time about it, so she tried to avoid cooking. Today was an exception, but mostly because she had needed something to keep her occupied and they all knew it. But they also all knew their fearless leader, and didn't argue when she asked to cook, despite the fact that it could do everlasting damage to their palates. Since she was still on the schedule to clean up, she did that, too.

She and Angel were up to their elbows in soapy water and dirty dishes when Fang walked into the kitchen with a storm cloud hanging over his head. Angel looked up as she walked in, but Max continued to stare into the water and scrub away at the dish in her hands. Fang picked up a dish and started to scrub.

"Angel, can Max and I talk alone?"

Angel looked at Max, waiting for a nod of approval. Only after Max gave her the okay, did she leave the room.

"You can't avoid me forever, you know. The others are going to notice at some point."

"I ate dinner with you; that's not avoiding," she snapped.

"You haven't looked at me willingly since we got back. Are you afraid that I'm going to tell them what happened? You should know me better than that."

"Six years is a long time. People change."

"I see that. You cook now. That's something I thought I'd never see."

"Yeah, well, you can't screw up a pot roast in a crock pot too badly. And you're all still alive, so it must not have been too bad," she answered quietly.

"No, it wasn't. None of this is too bad. You kept the family together; that's the same old Max that I know," he said, putting a comforting hand on her arm. Instead of taking comfort, she jerked away, sending water splashing all over the floor. "Woah. Sorry, I didn't think—"

"It's fine. I'm fine."

"You really do have a great thing here. You've made a home for them after everything they've gone through."

"Well, after Iggy graduates, I don't know what we're going to do. He's double majoring in Aerospace Engineering and Chemistry. He's not going to get a job with that staying here. At some point, I'm going to have to let my flock fly and make their own homes."

"And what about you?"

"What do you mean 'what about you?'"

"This family has been your whole life. What are you going to do when you have to let your flock fly, as you say?"

"I'll jump off that bridge when I get there."

"Do you even know how to take care of yourself?" he asked, his voice accusatory.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, caught off guard not only by the question but also by the tone in his voice. "I've been taking care of this family since we were children. I've been keeping us alive for almost ten years. Don't ask me if I know how to take care of myself!"

"That's the point that I'm making, though. When I ask about taking care of _you_, you start talking about taking care of _them. _ You put their needs—and their wants—in front of your own safety. You need to go to a doctor! You need to talk to someone—"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, not wanting her housemates to hear their conversation.

"That's what I'm talking about. You're so busy taking care of them that you aren't taking care of yourself."

"I was taking care of myself, thank you. I was taking care of myself just fine."

"Oh yeah, because getting rap—assaulted in a sleazy motel is taking care of yourself. What the hell were you even doing there?" he asked. It was phrased like a question, but he was demanding answers.

"That's none of your business!"

"It was her day off," a quiet voice said from behind them. They whirled around to see Angel standing in the doorway of the kitchen, the bear that Max had gotten her in her hand. It didn't matter that she was thirteen now; she still held on to those teddy bears.

"What?"

"Her day off. One day every year, Max goes off and does her own thing. She's always gone for twenty-four hours, if that. It's a day for her to go and chill out and not worry about us anymore. It's her day for indulgence," Angel explained.

"Angel, this is a conversation—"

"For the adults. Yeah, I know, go back to your room and study. You're both thinking loud enough to wake the dead. And he should know. After all, he's the reason you need a day off."

"Angel!" Max started to chastise her, but the thirteen year old was already gone. There were some days when she forgot that Angel was only thirteen; she wasn't even in high school yet, and somehow, she had the mental ability of a rocket scientist. It was amazing, but still a little unnerving.

"What does she mean? That I'm the reason you need a day off?" he demanded in a hushed whisper, even though they both knew that wouldn't stop Angel from knowing what was going on in the conversation.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Max said, reaching into the sink for another dish to brutally scrub away at.

"Clearly it's something or you wouldn't be pissed about it."

"It isn't anything that I care to discuss with you, let's put it that way."

"Well maybe you should if you spend your days off running to sleaze bag motels!"

She whirled on him, dish in hand, with a vicious expression on her face. It reminded him a bit of a wounded animal in a trap; the kind that would bit you if you tried to help it, or the kind that would rather chew off its own leg than accept help from a stranger.

"I said I don't want to talk about it. Now get the hell out of my kitchen."

And with that, the conversation was clearly over. Fang accepted his defeat and left the room quickly. Though the house was familiar to him since it was almost a carbon copy of the one they used to live in, he couldn't help but want to explore. His explorations brought him to the garage, where he was surprised to find two cars and a motorcycle. He also found Iggy and Gazzy playing with gasoline and grape jelly.

And, of course, Iggy heard him coming before he even made it into their workshop.

"Fang? What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice wary.

"I was jut exploring, trying to reacquainted with the place," he answered casually, though there was nothing casual about the question. He knew that they were speaking in code, and that every response he gave would be combed over for double-meanings. "What are you doing here?" didn't refer to just the garage, but rather their whole lives.

"It's pretty much the same as when you left," Gazzy explained. "The room you used to sleep in is the extra bedroom. I guess it'll be your room again. It's across the hall from Max's."

"Where's Nudge?"

"She's in her room, probably. She's been trying to build her portfolio to get into fashion school or whatever. She's probably drawing more clothes."

And that's exactly where Fang found her. It wasn't the same room that he remembered from when they were younger—most likely because the occupant had grown up and matured—but it was still entirely Nudge. The walls were purple and pink with ornate gold designs painted on them. She was sitting at the desk, working intently on whatever was in front of her. He stood there for several minutes before she got up and realized that he was there.

"Jesus, Fang!" she cried, surprised at his intrusion. "You should knock before you go creeping in people's rooms!"

"It wouldn't be creeping if I knocked."

"That's not funny, Fang." Her response to him was short and clipped. She was purposely focusing on the drawing in front of her, making a point of not looking at him anymore.

"I just wanted to say—"

"That you'll be hanging around for a while. I know. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Your room is down the hall across from Max's."

Taking the hint, Fang left her without another word and made his way down the hall. Nudge didn't really need to tell him where his room was: it was in exactly the same place it had been when they lived here years ago. It looked exactly the same way that he had left it the day that the house had been destroyed—navy blue walls with white trim, a simple double bed with a burgundy coverlet and a few books on the bedside table. It even smelled the same.

It was comforting to be in a place that was familiar, even if he knew that it wasn't the original. For years—the past eight or so—he had moved around, never staying in the same place for a few more weeks. For the few weeks that he would stay in one place, he always stayed in motels, where no matter how long he stayed, he would never feel comfortable. The only thing wrong with this picture was the fact that he was in a familiar home, surrounded by people who should be familiar but weren't.

He heard the shower start up in the bathroom that they used to share and knew that it was Max getting in the shower. The water ran for fifteen minutes before shutting off. Another five minutes later, he heard her walk from the bathroom to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. It was all perfectly scheduled, just like she had been before we were jet-setting all over the world trying to save people who perhaps really didn't deserve saving. After yet another five minutes, she emerges in her pajamas—long pants and long sleeves, he noticed—with her wet hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail.

When bedtime rolled around, Max still made her nightly round to each of her Flock, making sure that they were tucked into bed—or at least in their bedrooms—before going to bed herself. Her light stayed on late into the night, and though he knew that she probably wanted to close the door, she didn't. Instead, she left it open so that she if any of the others were in trouble, she would be able to hear them and come running. Always the protective one. After all the other lights were off, Max's finally went off. Only then did Fang leave his room and head across the hallway. He never made it there.

"Where are you going?" Iggy asked from the doorway of his room.

"I was going to talk to Max," Fang answered quietly.

"I don't really think that's such a great idea. Her day off clearly didn't go so well."

"Everyone keeps talking about her day off—"

"She takes the same day every year. Always yesterday. It's her one day when she doesn't have to take care of us—"

"You know she doesn't think of it as a chore. She loves you guys."

"We know that. She doesn't take it because taking care of us is a chore. She takes her day because she doesn't want us to see how much you tore her apart," Iggy said, his voice colder than Fang had ever heard it.

"What?"  
"You left her yesterday six years ago, and she mourned for you. It took her days to get out of bed. She would stand in your room—well, the one you had been staying in—and just wait, like you were going to come back at any minute. She only ate when her mom made her; someone had to remind her to do everything: eat, sleep, shower, dress. You did that to her—"

"I didn't mean to hurt her. It was for the greater g—"

"If I hear the words "greater good" come out of your mouth, I'm going to beat you with my cane. You could have found another way to handle the situation that didn't involve tearing her heart out and stomping on it—"

"That's not what I meant to do—"

"Well that's what happened. A week after you left, she snapped out of it and it was like everything was fine. She pushed everything aside and did what she had to do. If we hadn't spent as many years together as we had, I would have thought that everything was okay. But there was a sadness to her that wasn't there before. Max held us together, and she made sure that we were all happy and well taken care of, and she _saved the world _for Pete's sake, but there was always something that was a little bit sad. That part was you.

"So finally, we told her to take her day to mourn you, and she does it every year. She takes her day off and spends doing whatever the hell she wants, and then she comes back to us and is as close to fine as she's going to ever get. But you did that. And for whatever reason, she still has some kind of feelings for you or she wouldn't let you be here right now," Iggy explained. His voice was no longer cold, but trembling with emotion. He had always been a patient person, but that patience was clearly stretched thin.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't like that you're here, but something obviously happened while she was gone. You don't have to be a mind-reader to see that something is wrong. If you can help make her feel better…I'm not going to send you away."

"I'll do whatever I can for her, you know that," Fang said, and Iggy didn't doubt his sincerity.

"Damn right you will. She didn't need a day off before you, and if you hurt her again, you won't live to see the consequences of it."


	4. Working on It

**Author's Note: I'm so, so, so sorry for the delay (again). I got caught up in school and work and life in general. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think!**

Fang told himself that he would only stay for a week, that then he would take the few belongings that he had and find somewhere else to live. It would be somewhere nearby, of course, so that he could be there if any of the others needed him—though his reception told him that no one would be admitting to that one any time soon.

But then a week turned into two, and then three, and before he knew it, months had passed without him doing anything remotely close to moving out. Instead, he grew more and more settled in Max's house.

It wasn't a perfect arrangement, and he knew that. At first Max hadn't wanted to be in the same room with him for any longer than it took to have a family dinner. Gradually, she started to tolerate his presence and now she could stand him for up to twenty minutes at a time—roughly. In private, Iggy was as guarded and frigid as ever, but he kept up a good front for the younger children. Of course, given Angel's ability, she could see straight through the whole charade, but Fang still appreciated it. It didn't seem to put a damper on Angel's enthusiasm.

And as Angel's enthusiasm remained steady, it spread to Gazzy and Nudge. After the first few days, the cold shoulder faded and the younger ones were embracing him again. Nudge was continually showing him her sketches and asking for his input—especially when she decided to start working on her men's line. She was "diversifying her portfolio," she had explained over and over.

Despite the fact that Nudge was old enough to drive, Max was the one that took them to school. Their morning routine was the same every day: everyone piled into the SUV and Max would drive them to school. They would pile out, leaving her alone with Iggy to head to the university. Fang started to tag along, sitting in the front seat next to her as the others poured out of the backseat. Teachers and administrators gave them the occasional odd look, but no one said anything.

Between classes, Max spent more of her time in the library, sitting in front of the computer pouring over newspapers and articles for class. Her purpose was two-fold; it let her perform well in her classes, but it also gave her an excuse to watch the news, to make sure that nothing came up in the news that mentioned them. They had gotten a fresh start, but she wasn't going to run the risk of anything damaging the life they had started. So she sat, deep in the stacks in the library, looking over articles—even though that was the last thing she really wanted to be doing.

And that was where Fang found her when he came looking one sunny Friday afternoon three months after he returned.

"All this time has passed and you've still got the corner market on creepy lurking," Max said, turning to see him looking over the top of her cubicle.

"Once I found what I was good at, I figure it's a good idea to keep my skills sharp," he replied lightly.

"Can't you keep your skills sharp on someone else? You know, someone who's not working?"

"Oh, but where would the fun be in that?"

"It would be somewhere that's not here. What do you want, Fang?" she asked, dropping her pencil and turning to focus all her attention on him.

"I just wanted to know if you were okay. You've been going nonstop since I got here, and you…I just wanted to make sure that you were—"

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Now can I get back to my assignment?"

"Would you stop worrying about your assignment? You're twenty-one years old, Max. Twenty-one, and you're taking care of—"

"We've already had this conversation, Fang. I don't mind."

"I know that. But I've been back three months and you haven't let me in. You haven't let me help you," he said, trying to keep the begging out of his voice. "You won't let me help you."

She didn't answer. Instead, she started packing up her things, shoveling piles of newspaper and magazines into her bag without so much as a glance his direction. When she headed towards the elevator, all Fang could do was stand and stare after her until she finally glanced back over her shoulder.

"You coming or are you just gonna stand there all day?"

In five paces he closed the gap between them and followed her out of the library to a bench. She sat at the far end of it, and the look on her face told him that perhaps he should do the same—sit at the other end, that is. Wisely, he went with his gut and was rewarded when she didn't immediately start snapping at him.

"I can't let you help me," she whispered, her words barely heard over the people walking by. Perhaps that was the point. "I can't let you help me because if you leave again, we have to rebuild. I mean, hell, you've only been here three months and you've already worked your way back into their lives. When you left, I wasn't the only one that got left behind; they were there, too. They had to learn how to be without you, and it was hard for them. So I can't afford to let you help me because if you leave again—"

I won't leave," he said quietly, though it was loud enough to make her stop and take notice. "Unless you tell me to go, I'm not leaving. I was stupid enough to do it once, but I learned from my mistake. You don't have to do this by yourself."

"I'm not by myself, not in that house. I've got—"

"The Flock, I know. But I just want you to know that you've got me now, too. And, you know, if you ever want to talk, I'm right across the hall," he said, sliding closer to the middle of the bench.

She held a hand in his face, stopping him from getting any closer. "Don't push your luck. I'm still a little pissed that you dragged me out her to talk about your feelings. I've still got work to get done before class. Go bother Iggy."

Max rose and walked—no, stalked—back into the library, though he knew that he wasn't in trouble; there was no real heat in her voice. His suspicions were confirmed when they got home that evening and she actually let him in the kitchen to help with the dishes.

"I'll wash, you dry," she ordered, not giving him any room to contribute. He didn't object, just stepped up to the sink and did as she asked—well, it was more an order, really.

They didn't say anything at first, just stood there side by side with the dishes. Max kept looking out the window—and who could blame her when they had such a fantastic view—and biting her lip nervously. He didn't know why she was nervous, but it was obvious that she was. Not wanting to press his luck, he stayed silent and kept drying the dishes, waiting for her to speak first.

"You know, Iggy needs a new laptop. We could get him one for graduation."

"It's the least we could do for our resident rocket scientist," Fang agreed, trying not to let the satisfaction slip into his voice. _We. _She had said, "_We_ could get him one for graduation."

She suddenly got very interested in the dish that she was scrubbing and he knew that she was probably trying to hide her tears. Should he let it go? Yeah, probably. Was he going to? No.

"You're crying because our little Iggy is all grown up!" he teased lightly.

"No, I'm not. I just got dust in my eye."

"We're washing dishes. You could at least have said you got soap in your eye."

"Knock it off."

And so he did. He let her finish the dishes in peace, and only watched as she slipped out onto the back porch to finish getting some work done. Between Iggy's notes for a final exam spread out all over the table and Angel hogging the coffee table in the living room, there was nowhere else for her to go but outside.

She stayed out there for a long time, until well after the sun had set and the outside lights turned on. It was a break from her normal routine—usually she did her school work at the desk in her bedroom, but she had too much clutter there already—and that made him just a little bit anxious.

"I would tell you not to worry about her, but I think that would be pointless," Angel piped up from the floor of the living room. "If it helps, she's too focused on the editorial she's writing to even notice that she's sitting outside in the dark. She does her best work when she gets lost in it like that."

"Stay out of my head," Fang said quietly.

"I didn't have to be in your head to see that you're worried. You've got it written all over your face. She's working on it."

"Working on what?"

"Letting you in. It's hard for her. It's hard for her to let any of us in, really. And she's afraid of leaning on you too much after what happened—"

"Don't!" he cut her off. "Don't talk about it."

"I won't. She knows that I know about it, but it's easiest for all of us just to pretend that I don't. When and if she wants to tell me about it, then I'll listen. But just know that she's working on it. On all of it."

"You never did outgrow the cryptic thing, did you?"

"No," she answered with a mischievous smile. "I'm too good at it to stop."

"Hey, Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"How is she doing? I mean really doing?"

Angel shrugged. "She's…she's dealing the best way she knows how. Now stop asking about her because she's coming inside."

And right on cue, Max came through the back door, her arms full of papers and books; two pencils were entwined in her hair, holding it out of her face. She had ink smudges on her cheeks from tapping an open pen against the side of her face, but she didn't seem to notice. Glancing at the clock seemed to bring her back to reality as she realized what time it was.

"Wow, when did it get to be 9:30? Has everyone had a shower?" Max asked the collective crowd that was beginning to gather as Gazzy and Nudge came in for a snack.

"Yeah," Gazzy grumbled. "Nudge used all the hot water and didn't tell me, but that was like an hour ago, so you should have some now."

"Thank you. Anyone have plans for tomorrow that I need to know about?"

"I have a final exam at 3," Iggy announced. "Since you don't have one, Nudge said she'd drive me."

"I'll drive, it's not a problem," Max countered quickly.

"Don't worry about it. I wanted to head in that direction anyway. I'm going to need some new fabric for a jacket that I'm working on," Nudge said.

"Okay. If you're sure. Anyone else?"

Angel and Gazzy shook their heads; Max was fairly certain that Gazzy was planning to spend his Saturday blowing things up—not surprising at all. Angel rarely had a plan, but she managed to entertain herself.

"Alright, I'm hitting the shower and headed to bed. See you in the morning," Max said and headed off the bathroom.

Fang retired to his bedroom, but he could hear the water in the bathroom still going. The shower was long—just as all the others had been since they got back—and he knew that she would emerge with dripping wet hair and skin scrubbed angry and raw. And then she would walk down the hall, pull the door closed behind her and go to bed. In the mornings, her bed was made before she came out so that none of them could see just how tangled the sheets had gotten while she was fighting off the nightmares.

Tonight was no different. Max came out of the bathroom in her pajamas—shorts and a long-sleeved shirt—and he could see that her skin was angry and red from where she had scrubbed it too hard and too long; it was a wonder that she had any feathers left on her wings. She walked down the hall and into her bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her.

Two minutes later, it opened again and he heard Max's footsteps on the cold, hardwood floors as she tiptoed across the hall to his doorway. In the shadows, her skin looked pale and she seemed almost fragile—not a word he associated with her.

"Fang?" she whispered.

"Yeah? Is everything okay?" he asked, sitting up in bed. He was wearing the same thing he always wore—cotton sleep pants without a shirt—but he suddenly felt the need to cover himself. It was a strong urge, but he resisted.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. I just wanted to let you know that…that I'm working on it. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's how it is. I'm…I'm glad that you're back with us, and I'm trying to get used to having you back and to letting you in, but—"

"—it's a process," he finished for her. "I know, Max. That's fine. That's more than fine."

She stared down at the floor, suddenly more nervous than she had been a moment before. How she ended up at Fang's door, she wasn't entirely sure. She had been climbing into bed when she felt the sudden need to explain things to him, to make him understand that she was trying. Words didn't feel sufficient, but they were all that she had at the moment.

"I have nightmares," she said plainly.

'I know. I do, too."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You do?"

"Yeah. I keep coming home and f-finding you again, and it scares the hell out of me. I mean, even when I'm dreaming, I know that it's a dream, but that doesn't really make it any less scary. Knowing that we heal faster than the average person doesn't really help, either. Because in that moment—when I see you like that—I'm helpless."

Max toyed with the edge of her sleeve, trying to look everywhere but Fang's face because if she looked at his face she would see his honesty—his beautiful honesty—and that might be too much for her.

"I can't talk about it," she whispered, though more words were trying to claw their way past her lips.

"I understand. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Go back to bed, and if you need me…I'm right here."

Max nodded and padded back to her room. The minute her head hit the pillow, she was out like a light.

She didn't stay that way, though. Hours later, Fang heard the whimpers that always came with the end of a nightmare. It was the part when she would wake up, clutching the sheets to her chest and telling herself over and over that it was a nightmare and that a monster wasn't going to come out of the shadows on her bedroom wall. She would torture herself for forever like that, huddled under the covers.

He rose from his bed and tiptoed across the hall, opening her door as quietly as possible. Inside, Max was in bed, just as he had known she would be. For a moment, their eyes met and he dared not go any further. Instead, he whispered, "If you decide that you need anything, just call. I'm up."

She nodded and tiptoed back to bed. Five minutes passed and the whimpering quieted, but he could still hear her heavy breathing. Ten minutes passed with no change. Twenty minutes later, he heard a knock on the wall.

"Hey Fang? Can you come here?" He was across the hall in no time. "Will you…if I ask you to hold me, are you still going to be here in the morning."

He nodded and slipped into bed next to her.

"Until you send me away."


End file.
